Orléans
by Berne
Summary: He had heard it to be a decadent town, a corrupt town, a town of political exiles, something which he found difficult to reconcile with his visions of dust and rock and bone. But it was nothing like he had imagined. JamesAnamaria


**Title:** Orléans

**Rating: **R

**Characters: **James/Anamaria, Groves/Gillette

**Warnings: **Adult situations. Implied slash, i.e. male/male relationships.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Gore Verbinski, Ted Elliot, and Terry Rossio, various studios including but not limited to First Mate Productions Inc., Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Walt Disney Pictures. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**AN:** Written for Hereswith, who requested Anamaria/James. An insane amount of love to Ociwen and Watersword for helping me whip this into shape.

**Historical note**: This is set in 1718, when the Quadruple Alliance was signed by France, the Empire, England and Holland. In order to fit my timeline in with the Alliance, I have moved the founding of New Orléans to 1700 (when it was actually 1718).

_**New Orléans, 1718**_

America. James had never visited the continent, had never had reason to. He knew of it, knew that Verspucci must have been a fine sailor to explore this aching expanse of land. He may never have come at all were it not for the Alliance. It seemed that King George did not trust the French, but James was loath to have left the Caribbean while Spain was threatening war (again).

One could get swallowed whole by America. His maps showed it as a hulking mass which he had always imagined to be barren wilderness, naked trees arching towards the dust-torn skies. He couldn't imagine anyone actually _living_ there, apart from the savages he had heard of: brutal nomads who spoke strange tongues and cursed those who had invaded their rock-strewn country. But New Orléans at least was on the coast. He had heard it to be a decadent town, a corrupt town, a town of political exiles, something which he found difficult to reconcile with his visions of dust and rock and bone.

But it was nothing like he had imagined. It was a place of dreams, of nightmares, of star-bright masonry and sin-dark streets. It was a place of gambling and drinking and debauchery, whores leaking from the brothels, as numerous as the insects that plagued the town. Each man he passed had a bottle in one hand and a girl in the other. The gentlemen (and they could only be distinguished by their travelling on tenuous carriages) wrapped themselves in rich hues: poppy silks, gilt brocade, grapevine detail. Recent flooding had muddied the streets, but there were still children playing in it, and -- was that a snake? He was sure it had been, but now it was gone, slipping between the crude structures of cypress slaps and mud chink topped with thatch.

The taste of New Orléans would never leave him. Humid and heavy, and yet when the wind blew through the town, salt on its breath, it brought the kind of vitality that James had come only to associate with the Caribbean.

It was a young town, especially when compared to London, ancient Londinium, compared to the age-old cities of the Far East, Damascus and Jerusalem, miracle lands so removed that James could hardly believe they existed.

But New Orléans existed. It battered the senses: the thick stench of disease; smoky scents that were neither exotic nor familiar; screeches, gunshots, rare silences that seemed oddly reverent until a snatch of song or laughter or screaming rang out, and then James could taste the place on his tongue again: bitter liqueur and blood.

"On his fortieth birthday, James Norrington, Commodore of his Royal Majesty's Fleet, scourge of piracy in the Caribbean, was kidnapped by his two mutinous captains and taken to _Le Petit Pois_ (that den of sin and Frenchmen), utterly and completely and horrendously against his will."

"Oh, shut up, James, and have another drink."

James blinked at the tankard thrust in front of him and did just that. The tavern didn't look quite so terrible as it had when he was first dragged in here. The whores were actually rather pretty, from a distance, and the sailors (pirates, most likely) were singing a raucous and mostly harmless shanty that made James' mouth twitch into a grin.

Jack Sparrow was sprawled, quite drunk, several tables away, but James had long since decided to ignore him. That day's head start had soon melted into years, and Sparrow mostly avoided the Caribbean, returning only once in a transparent disguise at Elizabeth's wedding to Will Turner.

"You're thinking too much," moaned Andrew. "You get this little line right _here_." He made as if to poke his forehead but missed, almost taking an eye out.

"Careful," said James. "You've only two of them, you know."

Theodore nodded. "You've awful night-vision; I'd hate to see what you're like with only one eye." He sent a significant look across the table that James didn't understand at all. Andrew apparently did, because he flushed.

"You look like a marrow," James informed him.

"A marrow?"

"Yes. A marrow."

"I don't think a marrow is red, James," piped up Theodore. "I'd say he looks more like a beetroot, myself. Or a cooked lobster." He grinned. "Two shillings says I can make it worse."

There was a brief scuffle under the table that resulted in Andrew making a very interesting noise, something like an aborted squeak, and turning abruptly scarlet.

"It worked," observed James.

"Yes," gasped Andrew, glaring at Theodore. "It certainly did."

The skirmish erupted again, only this time Andrew somehow managed to drag Theodore beneath the table, where it resumed with renewed fervour. James would have been alarmed, but neither sounded terribly distressed and as he ducked a shirt that sailed past his head, he decided that perhaps it would be best to seek a quieter spot where he wasn't in danger of being knocked senseless by a flying boot.

The night outside the tavern was warm and too still; the air pressed in on him, smelling of stagnant water, sticking his shirt to his back. Mind still swimming with ale, a laugh involuntarily escaped his lips, ricocheting off the walls of the deserted alleyway. It was almost quiet here, the tavern-noise a muffled din behind him. The lamp overhead flickered, the shadows shifted, and suddenly there was someone there, slipping out of the shadows as she (it _was_ a she -- pretty eyes and delicate frame swamped in men's clothing) stepped forward to look him up and down.

James frowned. "Are you quite all right, Miss?"

The woman grinned, although it was more a feral baring of teeth than anything else. "'Miss'!" The sharp laughter that accompanied the exclamation made James' nerves jump. "Haven't been called that in a long while." She grazed her eyes over James. "Anamaria," she finally said, stepping forward.

"James," he offered, and stuck out his hand. The woman -- Anamaria -- studied it for a moment before shaking it. James resisted the automatic lift of hand to his lips; he had a feeling that Anamaria was not a woman who appreciated such courtesies.

"Well," she said, stepping forward until the tips of their boots almost touched, "what's a nice gentleman like you doing in Orléans?"

James raised his chin. "I may be a pirate, Miss, for all you know."

Anamaria snorted, leaning over to trace a finger down his jaw. James smelled the distinct sting of alcohol on her breath and briefly wondered whether she was as drunk as he was. "Aristocrat's bones," she sneered, tapping his face. "And y' shirt's too clean. Saw you coming a mile off."

"I see." Anamaria didn't seem inclined to remove her hand from his face, but he found he didn't really mind. He suspected that he would have had he been sober enough to realise the risk of standing in a darkened alleyway in the bowels of an infamous town with a lady who--

"Good Lord, what are you doing?"

Anamaria's teeth grazed his ear, breath huffing against his neck. "Kissing you, y' fool." And she did, a deceptively sweet kiss that spoke nothing of her feline eyes and sharp tongue. When she leaned back, he was left with the burn of rum on his lips, blinking, and she smirked up at him, turning away.

James grabbed her shoulder, making her yelp, spinning her back to him, pulling her up against him because he _wanted_ to and he didn't want to think about it because _yes_, this was what he needed: Anamaria sliding down, silent as a cobra, tugging at his waistband, plucking at the buttons, sneering something about _gold_ and _Navy-types_, and then -- _oh_ -- everything was Anamaria, her tongue coiling around his cock, hot and _there_, and he grappled at the wall, shaving the skin off his palms, raw and unforgiving, gasping, stroking her hair; time was nothing, it was everything, and then he came with a shudder that almost sent him to the floor, turning his vision momentarily black.

He was faintly aware of Anamaria nipping a path up his neck, her breath even hotter than the sticky New Orléans air. He pulled her to him, tasting the bitterness of her mouth as she locked her arms around his neck, scraping her nails through his hair.

When James pushed Anamaria away, gasping, she scowled up at him. "What?" He floundered as her dark gaze rested on him. "Had your fun for th'evenin'?"

"No!" James groped at the buttons to his breeches with one hand, clinging onto her neck with the other. "No, not at all. We should… We should find a room."

Anamaria grinned at him, teeth startlingly white against her skin. She swatted impatiently at his fumbling hands and flicked the remainder of his buttons shut with deft fingers. "I've no coin."

"I do." James patted his shirt. "And if you'd allow me to…" He pushed himself away from the wall, willing his legs to stop trembling, and offered her his arm. Anamaria glared at it for a moment, and then at him. He smiled, but she kept her eyes narrowed on him.

"I'm an escaped slave," she said, her voice a quiet hiss, "and a Negro."

James felt quite sober now and he knew that clamouring in his head were sensible, logical thoughts that reminded him of his duties, his status, his morals. But he needed this -- he needed Anamaria. She intrigued him and yet he knew nothing of her. Or perhaps it was _because_ he barely knew her. He was not prepared to let her go so soon.

"I know all of that." James glanced down at his outstretched arm. Anamaria looked at it, something indecipherable flickering across her face. A heartbeat, and then she wrapped her arm around his and steered him down the alleyway.

The next morning, James awoke to a screech that he initially took to be part of his pounding headache. He soon discovered it to be Anamaria.

"Y' mangy bastard!" James lifted a hand to scrub the sleep out of his eyes, but was stopped by the press of cold steel against his neck. His eyes snapped open, panic and a dawning sense of his own foolishness banishing the last vestiges of sleep.

Anamaria was crouched over him, dagger in one hand, pistol in the other, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Commodore James Norrington! Is that who y' are? Scourge of piracy? I should gut you right here and let a great many people sleep at night."

"I came with two captains." His sword was nowhere in sight. "They'll have New Orléans at a standstill if I go missing."

Anamaria snorted and realigned her pistol at his temple. "Y' think I care? You've killed more good men than I can count."

"I've killed pirates."

"And good men," she snarled. James winced as the pistol shifted. "I should shoot you."

There was something in her voice that made James pause in his frantic assessment of the situation and look at her. She appeared quite furious, her hair crackling around her, but the dagger against his neck was trembling and her eyes were darting around the room, looking at everything but him. He could push her off him, knock the pistol away, and have her hanged. But, no, he couldn't do that. Not to a woman. Not to _this_ woman.

"If you were going to shoot me," he said quietly, "you would have done it while I was sleeping."

Anamaria looked away, jaw working. After an excruciating minute, she slipped the dagger into her boot. James smothered a sigh of relief and thanked the heavens as the pistol was placed on the bedside table.

"'M goin' soft," she mumbled, glaring out of the window. Dust motes spun crazily against the sunlight, crushed gold dancing and glittering.

"Far from it," said James. "You're doing the right thing."

"_The right thing_," she sneered. "Don't y' dare lecture me on what's right and what's wrong. I forged my own path long ago."

James closed his eyes, feeling suddenly very weary. "You're a pirate."

He could feel the muscles in Anamaria's thighs clench, could imagine the shift of hand to pistol. "An' what of it?"

"Whom do you sail with?"

Pause. "The _Black Pearl_."

James opened his eyes, feeling a smile come unbidden to his face. "Good. That's good. He's not a cruel man, Sparrow."

Anamaria looked as though she was teetering between surprise and amusement. "He can be cruel, but he does what's necessary. He tries not to kill without reason, if that's what y' mean."

"It is."

"And he enforces that on all his crew." She almost looked fond, if only for a moment. "'S in th'articles." James reached up a hand to touch her face, but was brought short by the sudden seriousness that darkened her eyes. "If y' betray me, I'll escape and hunt y' down and skin you."

James swallowed. "I know you will."

"And if I can't escape, I'll haunt y' till the end of y' days."

"I won't have you hanged, Anamaria. I couldn't. Not today."

The words hung in the humid air, heavy and unspoken. _Not today, but perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps next month. Perhaps… _

Anamaria kissed him, a strangely chaste brush of lips that promised nothing, but had him reaching for her, pulling her down on top of him until she relaxed enough to rest her head in the crook of his neck.

Some hours later, Anamaria left him, and he lay still, listening to her collect her belongings. He was certain he heard her pause at the door and then she was gone, footsteps echoing down the corridor. When James opened his eyes, he saw a sliver of silver gleaming amongst the rumpled bedcovers. A dagger -- Anamaria's dagger. She was coming back; James could hear the soft scuff of boots against boards and he snapped his eyes shut just before she slipped back into the room. Even though his face was buried in the covers, he could feel the weight of her gaze on him. The bed frame creaked and he felt her fingers skim his forehead before she marched back out through the door.

When James looked back on that last evening, some time later, he would always remember that press of fingers to his skin as a strange kind of blessing, and he would touch the dagger hidden in his boot with a reverence most reserved for God, remembering how Anamaria had tasted of blood and liqueur, of New Orléans.


End file.
